


Fly With It

by iwritesometimes



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-20
Updated: 2019-06-20
Packaged: 2020-05-15 05:27:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19289083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iwritesometimes/pseuds/iwritesometimes
Summary: They're not really bodies, like this. They're not really anything at all - just sensations, hopes, desires. Startling, actually: that, when they are in the in-between space, in between seconds, in between up and down, in between each other's bodies, they are boiled down to things they aren't supposed to have or want, at all. Aziraphale thinks, then, that it's true what he'd heard all them Up There whispering over the millennia - that he really has gone native. Hewantsthings, now - like humans do.And what hewantsmost, right now, is to get as close to Crowley as, erm, metaphysically possible.***Fill for the prompt, "Aziraphale/Crowley," xenophilia with wing kink.





	Fly With It

They're not really bodies, like this. They're not really anything at all - just sensations, hopes, desires. Startling, actually: that, when they are in the in-between space, in between seconds, in between up and down, in between each other's bodies, they are boiled down to things they aren't supposed to have or want, at all. Aziraphale thinks, then, that it's true what he'd heard all them Up There whispering over the millennia - that he really has gone native. He _wants_ things, now - like humans do.

And what he _wants_ most, right now, is to get as close to Crowley as, erm, metaphysically possible. And they can get very close like this, indeed; happy accidental discovery, when they swapped bodies before the Big Finale to the Big Finale, that it wasn't at all like the process of being reincorporated. This was different and altogether more in every direction; this was light and shadow and heat and shivering, as their essences slid together, their fleshly baggage lying shoulder to shoulder, fingers twined, on Crowley's pleasure barge of a bed in Mayfair.

"Oh, I say," Aziraphale said, or...projected, or thought, or whatever it was that passed for communicating in this space. They just... _knew_ at each other, little electric shocks running from consciousness to consciousness until they were one thought together. "That felt lovely."

"What did?" replied Crowleythought, his energy wrapping around Aziraphale again, warm and enveloping.

"Whatever you just did to my wings." The wings were still there, strangely, inasmuch as they ever were, as physical as they were ethereal. In a manner of speaking, when they were like this, Crowley and Aziraphale were nothing but wings, just arcs of light and dark and the suggestion of feathers, all their energy concentrated in the fluttering, floating shapes. Crowley's warmth slid into the spaces between Aziraphale's feathers and Aziraphale shuddered delightedly, every hot breath of Crowley like a whispered admission of something. "Oh, yes, that!"

"You taste nice, angel," Crowley glowed. "Like. Thunderstorm and that Bordeaux we were drinking earlier."

"You can taste me? Really? ...May I?"

"By all means," came the reply, and Aziraphale exhaled himself into, through Crowley's feathers. Crowley made a soft, high sound of surprised pleasure and Aziraphale sunk a little deeper into the plushness of Crowley's wings.

"Sunshine," he said blissfully, the demon's golden warmth dissolving on his tongue. "And the olives from your martini."

Crowley laughed and flowed around Aziraphale, surrounding him again, winding tight around him. "Like what you taste?"

"Very much," Aziraphale murmured, with the faintest rumble of thunder in the bottom of his voice. "Should have known you'd taste as rich as you make yourself look, out there."

"And you haven't even tasted everything, yet." Crowley's voice was all smarm, honeyed where it rolled over the concept of Aziraphale's face. The angel tsked softly, making an invisible show of being scandalized, even as he reached out and threaded through all the little layers and downy crevices of Crowley once more, exploring the shadows amongst the points of whispery light. "Oh, that...that's nice. Aziraphale. Yes."

"Yes?"

" _Yes_."

Crowley was a million different shades of light and dark as Aziraphale carded through his wings, careful, methodical, in rhythmic pulses like waves - taking him all in, inch by eternal inch. Here there were dark places, darker than Aziraphale had ever seen, places that were cold to the touch; here, he was softer than anything Aziraphale had ever encountered on earth (and on earth was the only place softness was to be found), and so full of dazzling brilliance he could cry. Aziraphale lost himself to the demon's shifting planes and sensations, for a while, spreading out and pulling back, to and fro, up and down, pressing his essence against Crowley's again and again in hushing, gliding movements like a hand brushing across silk, or scales sliding over sand.

Crowley gave another shudder, a flashing pulse of his own. "Angel," he thought, and he sounded somehow more drunk than he had on three bottles of Bordeaux. "Please...don't stop doing that."

"Doing what, dear boy? This?" Aziraphale's entire being was a sly smile as he dragged the memory of hands through light years of layered, beautifully groomed feathers. Crowley arched sinuously, a serpentine column of heat and want.

"Aziraphale!"

"Alright, alright," Aziraphale gentled him, spreading fully over him, like a blanket of cloud, or of love, covering him completely under the bower of his own wings, and then _rocking_ , a slow, tidal shift, up and back. And again. And again.

Crowley hissed so softly beneath (inside, above, around) him that at first Aziraphale wasn't even aware of the sound, and by the time he was it was all he could hear. They had no hearts, in this place, but their entire forms throbbed, feathers glimmering and shivering like gilded spring leaves in the sun. Aziraphale sighed and, thinking very hard of lips, and skin, and physical forms, pressed what might have been his mouth to what could in some way be thought of as the nape of Crowley's neck, dark feathers parting to reveal warm, tender, vulnerable light below. Aziraphale kissed him like a benediction, and rolled over him again in a wave, and Crowley pressed back into him, _into_ him until they were so enmeshed they might never have been two separate things at all, from the beginning of time, the beginning of everything.

Streaks of light and void burst between them and Crowley shouted, an aching sound. The wave of their energies crested and they spread like a flaring supernova, wings spread in triumph as they peaked again and again and then quaked apart, squeezing into pinpoints of mingled light and dark. They opened their eyes - actual eyes now - and were met with the darkened ceiling of Crowley's flat, and two gasping, climaxing human bodies shuddering as they finished, pressed next to each other on black silk sheets.

Their breathing - wholly, unnecessarily necessary in this - was loud in the cavernous, silent room; they turned at the same time and reached for each other, hot mouths that were really mouths and hands that had fingers and could cling. It was a bit of a risk, going in between like that, but the coming back was always a treat, when they were once again contained inside of sensitive, fragile human skin, and their wings were mere ideas and tingling remembrances along their spines. When there was peace and something reassuring, something solid and real, about seeing each other's faces again, after everything.

**Author's Note:**

> oh shit, FIRST!!!!!! :D
> 
> i'm on [tumblr](https://iwritesometimes.tumblr.com), screaming about ineffability. come and join me!


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